


You're a Smart Cookie

by MajorEnglishEsquire, outpastthemoat



Series: NOODLE SHOP 'verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chinese Food, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2021-01-16 11:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: Sam can’t figure out why Chuck doesn’t want him around. Chuck’s got that crappy retail job now. They’re both working their asses off to afford to just live, but then Chuck gets home and they finally have time to see each other... and the writing is too important for him to have Sam even hanging out there.They both need to pay the bills, but come on. When they both have the same hours off, they should spend that time together, right?





	You're a Smart Cookie

A long time ago, Sam decided he wouldn’t be the kind of person his father was. He heard all the good stories from Dean, all the sad old wistfulness from Dad himself, but he heard the truth from Uncle Bobby—before she died, Mom was treated like an optional element in the Winchester family. Dad left all the time. Dad would stay in motels. Dad would yell at her.

Sam can’t be the kind of man who yells at his partner.

And he’s not invited over tonight, clearly. So he just goes out.

He meets coworkers for dinner, some other low-level paper shovellers slogging their way through the researching and paralegal stages before anyone will even let them sit in a room with a client. He doesn’t stay for beers. He goes elsewhere.

Meg is in town for her brother’s wedding and they drink and Sam must look really off. Because after just two, she tells him to go home, get some sleep, and apologize in the morning.

He hadn’t even told her he was with anyone. Barely even alluded to the problem.

His anger sits in his gut like a basket of sour, rotten fruit.

Chuck has been good about going out in public. Chuck has been amazing about spending time with Sam whenever he’s not exhausted from work.

Chuck is good and gentle and respectful. Careful.

Sam can’t figure out why Chuck doesn’t want him around. Chuck’s got that crappy retail job now. They’re both working their asses off to afford to just live, but then Chuck gets home and they finally have time to see each other... and the writing is too important for him to have Sam even hanging out there.

They both need to pay the bills, but come on. When they both have the same hours off, they should spend that time together, right?

Chuck “needs to” write.

Look: He does not _need _to write. This isn’t like when Sam was studying for the bar or studying up on firms for his interviews—that stuff _needed_ to be done. Writing can be done on Chuck’s breaks and during his meals and whenever else. He doesn’t have deadlines! He’s just writing on his own. Sam’s shit had deadlines. And they don’t have a lot of time to see each other with Sam’s long hours, Chuck’s different shifts every day—and now he’s talking about looking for work as a server on the weekends.

They barely see each other. Shit. Maybe Chuck is actually avoiding him. Maybe he’s working so he doesn’t have to see him. Maybe he’s working rather than risk having to go out in public again.

Sam watches Meg head out to her Uber. Stays there to polish off his beer. Goes next door for a burger. Calls his brother and talks shit so he can get his mind off things, sober up, and go home.

He isn’t much for conversation. His brother can tell he’s distracted. But he hasn’t said much about Chuck yet. He doesn’t wanna get into it. It’s starting to hurt at the center of him. He lets Dean ramble and busts another $5 on more fries just because he’s good for the next two weeks. He’s finally making enough to save and... he had _so_ hoped to take Chuck to a restaurant this weekend. It was really fucking strange to hear him say the name of the same steakhouse—while telling Sam that’s where he was looking into getting a part-time gig, hoping for good tips.

When Dean’s done talking to him and they hang up, Sam is just... sad. Kind of resigned. Pretty well sure that Chuck is never gonna have time for him. They just started out on this voyage and their ships will only ever pass in the night.

He’s full. So full of food and sadly sober.

He missed a text while they were talking. From Chuck.

**Im SUPER sorry SO sorry**  
** plz come by tmrw if u can.**  
** Last txt in pay pkg so if I**  
** dont txt back sry I love u**  
** so sry.**

Sam blinks at it and his extra fries roil around his insides.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe Chuck turned him down because he genuinely doesn’t have other time to write.

It doesn’t hurt any less to think that. To think that the writing outranks him.

But it also hurts to consider that maybe Chuck lost his car last year and he’s trying to get another one. Maybe he’s working as a fucking clerk and scrounging for a tipped position just to pay the rent. Maybe he can’t make ends meet.

Maybe he _is _working on deadlines—the deadlines of the bills that are due. Maybe he’s still so insecure about his amazing writing he doesn’t want Sam to know he’s hocking pieces for a few dollars a week. Deadlines. Money and deadlines.

He needs help and instead of asking for it, he’s working his ass off.

Worse?

He’s the one who bought Sam those extra study guides for the bar exam.

He’s the one who stole Sam’s good interview shirt and paid to get the stains out for him. Made sure he was perfectly presentable before the interview for this job—the one that’s going to jump-start Sam’s career.

As a Winchester with an extremely strong constitution, he’s not used to feeling nausea from alcohol. For a minute he thinks that’s what this is.

It isn’t.

He just realized he’s been delightedly reeling in his own paychecks while his partner silently struggles.

He is really just disgusted with himself.

The gas station first. He needs to fill the tank and then he needs to book it over to Chuck’s place.

It starts raining when he’s dodging out of the gas station with his receipt in hand. It’s pouring while he buzzes at Chuck’s door without any answer. He catches the front door as someone leaves and ducks in quickly while they’re distracted with their umbrella.

He pounds. Listens at Chuck’s door.

No movement.

He’s already asleep. Fuck.

He calls.

And, of course, Chuck doesn’t pick up.

Sam curses. The fucking text message already told him that. He won’t pick up. His fucking pay-as-you-go package ran out.

Son of a bitch.

His brother taught him how to pick locks. As long as no one else comes by, he could try to break in...?

It’s after dinner, though, not that late and still too high-traffic to-

Shit.

Fuck.

It’s after dinner.

It’s Thursday.

Oh, god, he better fucking be wrong about this.

«»

Bad news: He wasn’t wrong.

The shopping center is closed, end to end, by the time Sam pulls up. The crawling traffic and the rain slowed him down more than he thought was even possible.

There’s a bench down the shopping center. Almost near the Latin grocery.

Chuck is sitting there. Like he missed the citybus and has nowhere safe to go in the downpour.

Sam ducks into the covered walkway and heads over.

Chuck looks up when he’s almost there.

He sinks into his shoulders, hunches in his jacket.

Sam stops beside him and Chuck moves to take up the bare minimum amount of space on the bench.

Sam sits. He sits close because it’s cold and Chuck has been lonely for too long.

He should know how important he is. He should know he doesn’t have to make room for anyone.

Least of all the partner who walked away from him. Who snapped at him, hung up on him, and didn’t realize what this was about for hours.

(Like Dad would have.)

“Did you eat?” Sam asks.

Chuck nods and leans into the arm of the bench so he’s not in Sam’s space. Sam lets him stay away if that’s what he wants.

Chuck pulls his hand from his hoodie pocket and there’s a tiny fortune paper in it, crinkled to the shape of his palm.

“Please don’t break up with me,” he doesn’t finish saying it before he starts sobbing. Holds the fortune out.

Sam takes it and crushes it in his own palm and crushes Chuck in his arms, holds him tight and tries to hush him.

“I know I’m a piece of shit-” he cries.

“You’re not. You are _not _and please don’t say that.”

“Please don’t dump me—oh, god, I sound pathetic,” he cries harder.

“I’m not dumping you. I love you. I’m so in love with you. It’s okay if we’re not used to each other. Love is hard, it’s not magic. I need to listen. I wasn’t listening.”

Chuck clings to him and sobs into his jacket and Sam holds him closer.

“I screwed up,” Sam says. “I messed up and I’m sorry. I want to fix it. I don’t wanna walk away. I don’t need time away from you to figure my shit out. I need time _with you _to figure _us _out. I know better than to walk away and not listen to you and I can’t fucking believe this is the first time I’ve stood you up for a Thursday.” He curses himself and presses his face into Chuck’s hair to inhale and kiss his head. He looks down, pulls his fist from Chuck’s back and opens his palm.

**Don’t give up; the beginning is always the hardest.**

Chuck’s fortune, the one he got all alone. Telling him to beg for Sam to keep him.

In truth, it wasn’t his fortune. It never should have been. If Sam had come with, it would have been his cookie. He knows it. He’s the one who was gonna give up, and Chuck thought it meant he had to beg to make it work.

Sam is keeping this one.

It’s the beginning. He needs to be more forgiving of their differences. He needs to take the time to _understand_ rather than assume. He needs to support Chuck. He can’t struggle on his own anymore. Sam shouldn’t allow it.

He has to tell Chuck when he doesn’t understand because he’s too prone to anger when he’s confused. He wants to stop himself before he gets to that point.

And it should never be on Chuck to tell Sam that he’s being unreasonable. To warn him that he’s getting angry and they need to talk it out. Sam shouldn’t have snapped. When Chuck tried to explain, he should have _listened _to what he was saying, not just _heard _it. There’s a difference.

And it is never on Chuck to beg for reason.

To beg not to get left.

Sam holds him and rocks them and listens to the rain. Listens to Chuck’s jagged breathing and crying because he deserves to have this pain aimed at him. He needs to embed this in himself like a tattoo so he remembers without repeating.

He presses his mouth to the side of Chuck’s head and closes his eyes and says, “I’m so sorry. You don’t have to feel this way. I’m the one who should be begging you to stay. I love you, alright? I screwed up and I know you aren’t used to having someone in your space all the time-”

“I can get used to you, I promise, I just-”

“It’s okay,” Sam soothes him. “You’re okay. You have to know that you’re worth waiting for, okay? If it takes a while for you to get used to me, that’s alright. If you need time to work on your writing, that’s okay. But if all you have time for is to kiss me goodnight and fall asleep with me, I want that. I need that, Chuck. I won’t hover. I promise. Or... or I can even come over right before bed. No pressure, okay? Just let me be near? Please?”

Chuck is a tiny, shrinking thing in his grip. “I don’t mean to put things before you. I just. I have no time to write anymore. I’m working or sleeping or on the damn train. I never have time to do anything but think up the stories. I need time to write them and I just. I don’t have that but I want them to be- I need these words to come out. I feel like it’s my only real shot, Sam. I don’t have a real career ahead of me like you do.”

Well. Then Chuck deserves to have time to work on his stuff. Sam had time. He had a damn paid internship. He’s following his fucking dreams. Chuck deserves a shot at that.

“Move in with me,” he holds Chuck tighter. “I can afford my rent. I have space. You can take up the other side of the laundry room for writing space. I have a desk that will fit perfectly and you can be all alone in there; it’s warm and there’s a tiny window. Or you can put your plants and your books all in my room. Use my desk. And when you’re done writing for the day I’ll come lie down with you. I can work out in the main room and watch tv until you’re done. Then you won’t have a whole apartment to pay for. You can save for your car and buy the groceries and I’ll deal with rent and the other bills. We’ll split things and save money up. Please come live with me. Please let me help you,” he begs and kisses, kisses and begs into Chuck’s hair.

Chuck is too silent. Sam lets him not answer for a minute until he thinks he’ll go nuts.

Sits back and scoops Chuck’s head up. “Hey?”

“Do you. Do you really. Are you.” He stumbles over his ideas and goes quiet again, looking away.

“Please be ready for this with me,” he draws Chuck’s attention again. “We can do this. We’ll be a great team. I love you. I wanna fucking make a go of it. I wanna try this with you. I don’t wanna trap you. Just. I donno? Come sleep at my place tonight. See if you can stand it. At least think about it.”

Chuck’s eyes tear up again. “Please don’t say that if you’re not 100% sure. I don’t think you understand I-- that would be,” he sighs and closes his eyes. Droops against Sam. “That would be such a relief,” he nearly cries again.

“Okay,” Sam breathes his own relief. “So. Come home with me?”

Chuck nods into his shoulder.

Sam stands them both up and kisses his mouth. Stuffs the little fortune paper in his front pocket.

He takes his jacket off and holds it over their heads to get to the car. Unlocks the passenger side and gets soaked letting Chuck in first.

Chuck frets about him on the ride back to Sam’s place. Aims the hot air vents at Sam and takes his hand to warm it at stoplights.

He has been to Sam’s place a few times. He’d been to the dorms more. But he looks small standing in the doorway this time, like he’s waiting to be invited in.

So Sam tosses his stuff on the nearest chair and moves to just steer Chuck to the bedroom.

He has him kick off his shoes and take off his jeans, dropping them over the side of the tub for the soaked legs to dry out. Sam kisses him again. Keeps Chuck’s face in his hands to touch his fuzzy cheeks and pet his neck. “When does your next shift start?”

“Um,” Chuck clears his throat. “Not until eleven tomorrow morning. And it’s only four fucking hours,” he laments. “They’re completely shafting me.”

“Okay. So how about this: drop me off at work? Take the car to your own job. Go get your laptop and some clothes on your way back. Take a few hours here and decide if you can write. And come get me at five. You won’t have to spend any time on the train and you can get some writing done. I’ll set my alarm and wake you up to drive me out. Just try this out. Like. Maybe for the next couple days.”

Chuck looks so worried. “Are you totally sure? I just. I.” He sags again. “I want this so much,” he admits. “It would really take the edge off. I would feel like I could breathe. But I don’t wanna _trap _you with me.”

You know what? That’s enough doubt.

He pulls Chuck’s shirt up and off. Kisses him. “I’ll get us some glasses of water. Take the time you need and then come to bed. I’ll set that alarm. Tomorrow I’ll wake you up and show you how to work the coffeemaker and then you can caffeinate a little and drive me to the office.” He doesn’t take no for an answer. Holds Chuck’s shirt and brings it to fold over his desk chair in the next room. Leaves it and goes to clean up his stuff for a while. Putters around the kitchen and gets them some water.

When he returns, Chuck is sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers. Sam puts the glasses down and pulls off his own wet clothes. Hangs them around the bathroom. Brushes his teeth. He returns and pulls at the band of Chuck’s shorts. Tosses them toward where his shirt sits. Turns off the lamp.

Chuck doesn’t settle properly. He lies too stiff. So Sam drags him to his side and folds against his back. Rubs his belly down to his fuzz and only teases a little. Kisses the back of his neck and feels when it happens: feels when Chuck drops off. Settled. Safe. Relived. Loved.

Sam uses his first accrued vacation hours to help Chuck move out of his apartment and they set up his desk in the kitchen. The kitchen table gets moved to the next room, behind the couch. It’s a tight fit. But the plants draped all over the kitchen make it feel wider. Fresher. More alive. The desk is framed by the window in the dining area. They end up selling the table and just eating on the couch together.

They don’t give up on anything.

They never have to give themselves up to make things work.

They only give _to_ one another.


End file.
